


Blinding White

by overcastcat



Series: Ineffable Advent [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Challenge, Angst, Blood and Violence, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Short One Shot, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 15:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21656731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overcastcat/pseuds/overcastcat
Summary: There's nothing left for him here but snow.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Advent [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561327
Kudos: 10





	Blinding White

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my contribution to day two of drawlight's 31 Days of Ineffables Challenge (go check out their prompts at https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/189391982184/drawlight-drawlight-aziraphale-crowley-for).

Aziraphale knows he’s known for millennia, that snow slows Crowley down. _ He’s a serpent after all. Being a demon with a coldblooded form can’t be enjoyable in the winter months. _ He thought that this much snow would never fall on London again, what with all Adam’s been telling him about the icecaps and the Earth’s global temperature skyrocketing, but here they are with about 12 cm of it. _ I suppose miracles must happen occasionally. _Aziraphale reached into his pocket and extracted his small mobile (which he does know how to use, thank you very much), and set to typing at a steady crawl.

**Text Message**

**Thursday** 1:32 PM

Are you on your way, dear?

_ Read 1:32 PM _

yeah. i’ll be around by 2, i’ve got errands. grabbing muffins, there’s a sale at

the nearby bakery (the soho one).

Thank you, Crowley. Drive safely.

_ Read 1:33 PM _

no worries love, i’ll keep it below 90 :P. you like the raspberry kind, right? with

the icing sugar all over? i don't know how you can stomach that much sugar,

i always end up choking on it.

Aziraphale lips curled into a satisfied smirk. Crowley calling him “love” was a recent development that still caught him pleasantly by surprise, no matter how many times a day he heard it.

I’m happy with anything from there, but yes, the raspberry ones

are the best by leaps and bounds. 

_ Read 1:35 PM _

alright angel. raspberry it is.

***

It was 2 o’clock, and Aziraphale was growing a bit impatient. Crowley always got to the bookshop earlier than he’d predict, especially on days when they hadn’t seen each other, or spent the night before at the other’s place. He wrung his hands and debated going out to look for him, but firmly decided against it. There was no use fussing over Crowley, he could more than take care of himself. _T__he roads are slick, he’s probably just caught up in traffic. Hopefully whatever accident he’s stuck behind isn’t too serious. _

Aziraphale set out the tea and curled up with his favorite copy of _ The Picture of Dorian Gray,_ hoping he wouldn’t appear overeager when Crowley saw how his chair faced the door.

***

**Text Message**

**Thursday **2:19 PM

My dear, are you alright? Are you caught up in traffic? Please take care,

you know how cross you get whenever your Bentley gets nicked.

_ Sent 2:19 PM _

Crowley, I’m starting to worry. Where have you been? I know traffic must

be terrible, but surely you could miracle yourself here if it’s this bad?

Why sit in your car the cold?

_ Sent 2:26 PM _

Crowley, are you alright?

_ Sent 2:32 PM _

Crowley?

_ Sent 2:34 PM _

Crowley?

_ Sent 2:37 PM _

***

It was becoming exceedingly difficult for Aziraphale to reassure himself. As the clock ticked down to 2:41, he grabbed his overcoat, laced up his sturdiest pair of shoes, and hastily threw on his thickest wool scarf. Once Aziraphale had crossed the threshold, the wind sent a flurry of snow through his door and into his face. It was snowing even harder than before. He roughly brushed it away and miracled himself to Crumbs and Doilies.

The Bentley was parked outside. He pushed into the bakery, ignoring the annoyingly cheerful bell on the door. He was hoping to see or sense Crowley’s comfortingly familiar presence somewhere, but there was no sign of him in the entire shop. It was as if the demon had never been there at all. There was, however, a faint trace of spring rainfall and thunder in the air. _ It’s almost as if… oh, God. _

Aziraphale ran back through the door, nearly leveling a couple of tourists in his wake as he sprinted along the trail of angelic signatures still hanging in the air. He was beginning to pick up Crowley’s presence, too, the earthy smell of soil and vintage wine with the barest hint of brimstone. _ Why couldn’t they come after me? _ I _ mucked up their precious war! _The invisible tracks led him into increasingly dark alleys and sidestreets as his vision blurred with a haze of panic. The angelic traces grew stronger as Crowley’s grew increasingly fresh. 

Finally, he came upon a dead-end, with a small, golden leaf of paper lying at his feet. It said, in the neatest caligraphy Heaven had to offer, “To Aziraphale, courtesy of the Archangels”. Hardly daring to look up, his eyes met with nebulae formed from starry black essence swirling with red blood. 

He’d found Crowley, waiting in the snow with Death’s infinite patience.

His presence was fading. There were traces of it, but Crowley had gone long before Aziraphale had arrived. There was nothing left now but his broken corporation sitting in a pool of blood. Whatever they’d done, they’d done it to inflict the most pain imaginable. He choked on something monstrous and stumbled towards Crowley, hope and denial waning with each step. What was once the body of a beautifully sauntering demon was now a contorted husk that didn’t even resemble the original. There wasn’t enough of Crowley left to hold, so Aziraphale held himself and sank to his knees, waiting for God to take him away from this new nightmare the Archangels left in the place of his life.

***

Snow. That’s all that Aziraphale could see: snow clouding his vision in a blinding sheet of white. His eyes hurt terribly, and he wasn't sure how long he’s been sitting here, shuddering with cold and tears and some insurmountable defeat. Blindness is better than the sight that lies before him. It’s as bright as the surface of the sun, burning through his tears until all that’s left is a blank slate for his howling, raging grief; an empty canvas waiting for him to paint it red.


End file.
